The Tale of Two Brothers
by lokiMMXII
Summary: "The Holmes brothers had a culture all of their own making; when it came to what the rest of society would do there was quite a clear 'them and us' divide" A look at snippets of Sherlock and Mycroft's rather complex relationship.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.

_**Family quarrels are bitter things. They don't go by any rules. They're not like aches or wounds; they're more like splits in the skin that won't heal because there's not enough material. **_

_**~F. Scott Fitzgerald**_

Chapter One

The knock on the front door was the first clue. It wasn't the usual hesitant knock of someone who wanted the attention of the occupants but didn't wish to appear rude nor was it the hasty and firm knock of someone who had something to deliver and other places to be. No. This was the type of rage filled knock that would cause the door to shake slightly and, in any normal household, the occupants to react in a appropriately shocked manner. However this was the Holmes household and such knocking had become frequent over the years.

The angry voices would be next. First the angry voices of those at the door. Then, since today was one of those rare days when Father graced the family with his presence, it'd be his own ire filled speech that followed. (On the days when he's not around, Mummy's much more docile reaction to such events would normally cause the first set of voices to increase in volume and fury.)

Following that, all that would be left would be Father's usual parting call.

("Get out of my sight!")

Soon Mycroft's _guest _would darken his doorway.

As he continued with his work his attention was elsewhere, it was currently on the sounds of the staircase to be exact. The 5th, 9th and 11th steps had quite distinctive creeks. There were 15 steps on the stairs in total. Taking that into account, along with the length of the passageway, his door should be opening around about ...now.

Sherlock never asked to come in and Mycroft never told him to leave. This arrangement was one of the only 'brotherly' actions they ever indulged in and neither ever mentioned or questioned it.

He didn't look up when the door creaked open or when it clicked shut. This wasn't unusual. Some days Mycroft would acknowledge his brother and some days he wouldn't. Sherlock was just as inconsistent; sometimes he would walk in with an arrogant smirk in place and talk at length about whatever it was he had done this time, sometimes he wander around the room taking odd books off the shelves and leaning over Mycroft's shoulder to comment on how 'dull' his work was and other times he'd simply sit quietly.

Today appeared to be one of those sit quietly days.

Mycroft knew that if this was one of those ridiculously sentimental Hollywood films then he would have long since moved to sit beside his little brother and begun to whisper reassurances. He would be over there telling Sherlock that he wasn't a freak, that Father was just stressed and that everything would be fine in an hour or so. Even if this was something Mycroft was capable of doing he knew Sherlock wouldn't welcome it. Sherlock did not need comforting, he did not need reassurances, he was both stronger and smarter than that. It was their emotional detachment that aided their ability to observe and analyse at such a level. It's why they were beyond all those _other_ people. The Holmes brothers had a culture all of their own making; when it came to what the rest of society would do there was quite a clear 'them and us' divide.

* * *

Sherlock had been away for a week on one of those dreadfully dull and utterly pointless school trips. Father had insisted he go on it, more than likely out of some kind of hope that it would make him appear more normal to others. It hadn't been a complete loss. He'd been able to find out some things he didn't know about his classmates. Some things that were actually almost interesting. And on one night he'd managed to sneak off to pursue some suspicions he had about local shop keeper, who had some quite strange comings and goings.

Sherlock entered the house and haphazardly threw his bag to one side, the thud shattering the silence. Most people his age would be calling out for their parents now; they'd be loudly announcing the fact they were home and talking of how much they'd missed everyone. Then, after exchanging hugs and other such things they'd sit down and the child would tell the family all about what they had been doing and how much _fun_ everything had been.

There was only one person that would understand what Sherlock had been doing. With that thought in mind Sherlock made his way towards the staircase and began his ascension, walking in manner many people who knew him would think unusually slow. Outside of the house he never really bothered to take any set of stairs one step at a time.

When he opened the familiar door, smirk already in place, all that greeted him was an unusual neatness. Mycroft's room was always tidy, yes, but the shelves were empty and the desk was completely clear. The chair that the room's owner usually occupied was tucked under the desk. There was no sign of the room being _in use. _He backed out of the room and made his way downstairs, jumping the last 4 steps in haste. Judging by the time the best place to find Mummy would be the kitchen.

Sure enough there she was, still dressed in her dressing gown. She lazily held a glass of orange juice in one hand while the other languidly turned the pages of a magazine lying in front of her. She looked up as he entered and offered a small smile.

"Oh hello sweetie, you're home early aren't you? I wasn't expecting you for a few hours," she looked at the clock then back at him, "I'll make some tea... Oh and toast. You like tea and toast don't you? Of course you do."

Sherlock ignored all of this, there was a much more important matter at hand.

"Where's Mycroft?" he asked.

"Hmm...? Oh, He decided that the journey from here to the university campus was tedious. Your father agreed so he rented a flat to save Mycroft the trouble." She replied offhandedly, while navigating a kitchen she obviously rarely used.

"When was this decided?"

"I don't know, maybe a week or so before you left."

Sherlock walked out of the kitchen slowly. He picked up his bag on the way to the stairs and propelled himself up the stairs, two at a time.

Sherlock Holmes was above sentimentality so he _didn't _feel disappointment, hurt or betrayal. He _didn't_ care that Mycroft hadn't even mentioned this move to him.

Sherlock _didn't_ need Mycroft, he felt just as secure locked in his own room with his violin and his books.

No, Sherlock wasn't bothered in the slightest.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.

Chapter Two

It would happen every now and then. Father would be invited to dinner by his superiors and they would have to come along, dress up and act like the perfect nuclear family. Before they went out Father would run through a list of do's and don't's. Do laugh at the joke Mr Hewitt tells (even though he tells it at every one of these dinners and it wasn't funny the first time he said it.) Don't question his political views or stand points, you agree with them. It's not up for debate. And, in Sherlock's case, do behave and if you can't behave then simply don't speak unless spoken to. Don't you dare ruin this dinner. Don't. You. Dare.

As Sherlock continued to think of this his face darkened into a scowl, his mood not being aided in the slightest by his futile efforts to tie his tie. He hated being told what to do and he hated not being able to do something.

Sherlock was so busy inwardly ranting to himself about the situation that he didn't notice a figure darken the doorway. In fact, he didn't notice the figure at all until the tie was taken from his struggling hands.

It would seem Mycroft was home.

Another thing to add to the list of things he hated was the way Mycroft always interfered. The way he always assumed Sherlock needed his help. Who was he to take off for months and then waltz back in and start being... Mycroft again? How dare he even assume that he wanted his help or needed it?

Mycroft didn't look at him while he sorted the tie out and the only words exchanged between the two was when Mycroft had finished.

"Father wants you downstairs. It's almost time to leave."

With that Mycroft turned and left.

Part of Sherlock wanted to tear the tie off, to undo everything Mycroft had just done. Part of him wanted to throw himself back on the bed and lie there until Father started screaming for him to get downstairs just to show Mycroft he was never going to just mindlessly listen to him.

However Sherlock did none of these, he followed right behind his brother and 15 minutes later the sound of the front door shutting announced the departure of the family.

For four hours the house was silent and still.

For four hours the house was devoid of tension.

But after that four hours it was a different story...

* * *

"One night, that's all I asked for. One night! I've never been so embarrassed in my entire life."

"You!" Father had turned around to face Sherlock, red faced and almost shaking with rage "I can't even stand to look at you right now never mind speak to you. Get upstairs!"

He did as he was told, quite happy to be as far away from his father as possible.

However Father then did something unexpected, he turned to Mycroft. It was rare he'd ever take his anger out on him, mainly because he never really had a reason to. Sherlock stopped part way up the stairs, hand on the banister and shock filled eyes focusing on the scene; Mycroft was leaning against the door frame while Father stood in front of him, their faces only inches apart. Despite the small distance Father's voice hadn't quietened in the slightest.

"What did I tell you? Don't question his political views. Was that difficult to understand?"

"Some of his views were simply archaic, to move up political ranks you have to have ideas..."

"What do you know about moving through political ranks? That's the problem with both of you, you both think you're so clever. So very intelligent yet you can't even follow simple instructions. You're useless!"

As he ranted he moved in closer to the point Mycroft had to turn his head slightly to the side. Of course Mycroft's features remained as impassive as always, only letting a glimmer of irritation show.

"Enough!" It would seem Mommy had finally decided to intervene. Her voice cracked slightly as she shouted.

Father seemed shocked by the interruption but quickly recovered.

"No, it's not enough! I will not have my sons behaving in this way. They need to learn."

"Your sons...? Your sons! When was the last time you spent any time with them outside of reputation building events and dinners? When was the last time you spoke to them other than screaming at them for not measuring up to your standards? Standards which I think you'll find you don't even measure up to. When was the last time you came home for their birthdays or phoned them or anything a father is supposed to do? They may be your sons by blood but you are no father."

Father stared at her for a few seconds before storming past her, down the passageway and into his study. The slam of the door behind him causing the pictures on the wall to shake.

Mummy moved into the living room; you could see her through the doorway, sitting perfectly still and staring off into space.

Sherlock remained standing on the staircase.

Mycroft looked from the passageway Father had just walked down to the room where mother was now sitting and then to Sherlock. He sighed and straightened his clothes before making his way over.

Sherlock still hadn't moved from his place on the stairs. Mycroft pushed him lightly.

"Go to bed Sherlock." he said softly.

* * *

Mycroft decided to work on an essay for university rather than go straight to bed. He wouldn't have much time in the next few weeks, both the house and family needed to be prepared for the usual Christmas celebrations. If tonight was anything to go by the holiday was going to be eventful as always.

"I'm sure I told you to go to bed." He said offhandedly, while scanning the pages of text book for a relevant reference.

"Sleep is dull."

Standing in his doorway was Sherlock. His dinner jacket was gone and the sleeves of his shirt were rolled up. His hair was also dishevelled. It seemed Sherlock was having a restless night. Mycroft decided to humour him. After all, it wouldn't do to have him violently playing his violin or sneaking out to borrow next door's cat to 'test a theory'.

"Sleep is essential," He replied,"It took you longer to come here than I thought it would. You're not actually starting to become independent are you? Heaven forbid."

A snort was all he got in response.

Sherlock moved across the room and leaned over Mycroft's shoulder, curious about what his brother was doing. Mycroft may not have been able to see Sherlock roll his eyes but he knew that he had.

"How can you even work your way through this? It's so utterly mind numbing."

"It's amazing what you can do if you have the focus and patience of someone older than 5. Maybe one day you'll find that out for yourself. I'm not holding my breath though."

"Pity. I do believe if you held your breath waiting for such an occurrence the world could be a slightly less irritating place."

"I think irritating is a word more often associated with you... I can't imagine why."

As if to prove the point Sherlock snatched the text book from Mycroft's hands. There were plenty of other books in the room but of course the only one of any interest was the one he was currently using.

Sherlock took _his_ book over to the window, where he pushed the curtain out of the way and positioned himself on the window sill, using the faint light of a conveniently placed lamp post he began to read. He was still there when Mycroft finally decided to call it a night. He could have told him to leave but on the rare occasions Sherlock is keeping himself amused it's best just to leave him.

* * *

In the morning Mycroft found Sherlock exactly where he'd left him, except he seemed to have finally given into sleep. Sherlock was one of the only people he knew who could fall asleep on a window sill in the midst of winter. Judging by the way Sherlock's arms were wrapped around himself the chill was effecting him though. The book he'd taken from Mycroft was lying on the floor, more than likely unceremoniously thrown there when Sherlock got bored of it. Not far from the book was Sherlock's shoes and the tie he had been wearing. Mycroft sighed before taking his own dinner jacket from the back of the desk chair and placing it over his brother. He then left the room and made his way downstairs.

As he moved through the house he switched off the lights that had been left on throughout the night. He knew if he looked in the living room he'd see his mother curled up in the chair where she'd sat the night before. He also knew that if he looked in his father's study he'd find him slumped in his chair with an empty glass lying on the floor, having dropped from his hand once sleep consumed him. However, Mycroft went straight to the kitchen and begun the irksome task of making tea. He swore once he was older he'd make sure to always have someone on hand to make it for him.

* * *

Like Mycroft had expected the sound of the curtains being wrenched open was enough to wake Sherlock up. His younger brother glared up at him and looked ready to start their usual exchange of insults until Mycroft picked up one of the cups of tea and held it out to him.

After a a minute or so of staring out the window in silence Mycroft finally spoke.

"What do you see?"

"The woman across the street, late 30's maybe early 40's, she's not used to these streets and I've never seen her before so she's either not from around here or she's just moved here."

"Her clothes aren't quite up to date with the current fashion, yet the abundance of jewellery and also her car shows she has money."

"Most likely newly acquired money. Yes, definitely nouveau riche. The way she carries herself just screams it."

"Hm. Grandmother would not approve."

Sherlock let out a short bark of laughter at the thought and Mycroft smirked in response before continuing their little game.

"What about the man with her?"

"Obviously her husband, but they haven't been married long."

"And..."

"He's much younger than her, more than likely just with her for the money."

They spent hours at the window that day.

It was one of the last times they did.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.**

Chapter Three

Sherlock was almost shaking with anger as he stood at the front door of his house. The police officer, who had both dragged him out of the station and brought him back here, was holding his coat in a vice like grip. His body language and facial expression quite clearly showing a level of rage that would normally result in violence but seeing as Sherlock was 'just a kid' the police officer was obviously using every ounce of restraint he possessed. As far he was concerned he had no reason to be angry, it was Sherlock who was having to put up with _his_ idiocy. If they'd just listen to him their jobs would be a lot of easier.

He wished his mother would hurry up and answer the door. It was freezing outside and grip on his coat was starting to become exceptionally uncomfortable. The quicker his mother got out, acted apologetic and promised he'd never bother the busy men and women of the metropolitan police again, the quicker he could get out of this idiotic gorilla's grip, get a cup of tea and get to work on finishing his 'case'.

However, when the door opened it wasn't his mother that it revealed.

* * *

If Father had been rather annoyed about Sherlock turning up on the doorstep accompanied by the police then he was irate when he found out that it wasn't the first time this had occurred.

The argument that followed wasn't the worst the household had seen but it was among the last. After over an hour of shouting, screaming and various items flying across the room the front door slammed shut followed by a much smaller crash of something landing in the passageway, just short of the door.

At the beginning of the fight Sherlock had been sitting on the staircase but now he was lounging back on it, staring at the ceiling. Of course he had heard every word but he didn't care what his father thought of him. He didn't care that his mother's rants were punctuated with sobs. It was her own fault she was still fighting this battle, she should have left him long ago.

He moved to stand up, finally feeling the pain and stiffness caused by practically lying on a staircase. He descended the staircase quietly with the intention of seeing if Mummy was okay. From years of watching people interact he had gathered that it was usual to hug a family member when they were upset and whisper words of comfort. However, this wasn't the way things worked in this household. He had every intention of seeing if she was alright, in the sense off observing her emotional state from afar. Sherlock couldn't remember the last time he hugged anyone.

The sound of a voice stopped his approach towards the living room. He stood still, out of sight, and listened.

"...Mycroft, sweetie, it's me... I just thought you should know, your father and I...we're... getting a divorce... Yes everything is fine, well everything will be fine now... Oh Mycroft I just couldn't take it anymore..."

He scowled. Mycroft. Again. She always went running to him as soon anything went wrong. Mycroft the perfect son would fix everything. She couldn't see that he was just like Sherlock, but Sherlock wasn't a fake. He wasn't a coward who pretended to be something he wasn't just to win other people's approval.

Sherlock turned away from his original destination. She didn't need him. She had Mycroft.

* * *

It was the first birthday in over 20 years that mother would be having as a single woman and it would seem she had every intention of celebrating it. If anything, it would take care of all those people who kept visiting and phoning asking how she was coping. Mycroft had heard Mummy ranting to grandmother a few days back about how these people seemed to think she was lost without her 'darling husband'.

Judging by the people among the crowds Mummy had invited everyone in her address book. Some Mycroft vaguely recognised from blurry childhood memories, but he certainly hadn't seen them in quite a long time, and they took great pride in pointing this out whenever he was introduced ("Look how big you've gotten." "I haven't seen you since you were knee high."). To be honest Mycroft despised this type of social interaction.

The party seemed to be going well. Everyone looked as though they were having a good time and Mycroft was just about to escape to a less populated area of the house when he heard an shout of indignation coming from the opposite side of the room. Then he saw Mrs Mitchell (an old school friend of Mummy's if he remembered correctly) quickly pushing her way through the crowd, red faced and fuming. Her husband was struggling to keep up at her side.

Mycroft moved to intercept her and hopefully diffuse the situation before any word of it got back to his mother.

"Oh Mrs Mitchell, is something wrong?" He feigned concern.

Inwardly he gave a snort of laughter, something he would never do outwardly in anyone's company. He knew exactly what was the matter. Well, he had a prime suspect anyway.

"That brother of yours..."

He half listened to the rest of her rant as soon as his suspicions were confirmed, looking her and her husband over he already had an idea of what Sherlock had said. Beyond her shoulder he could see Sherlock leaning against a doorway, smirking triumphantly in his direction. More than likely he thought that Mycroft would be impressed by his deductions, and admittedly some of them were quite impressive but this wasn't the time or the place for their little game.

He made his apologies to both wife and husband, and also politely requested they didn't let this incident find it's way back to his mother. After all it was her birthday and she had being having such a horrible time as of late.

With that taken care of he set his sights on his troublesome younger brother.

* * *

"Was there any need for that?"

"There was every need."

Mycroft sighed. That was exactly the reaction he was expecting. Before he could respond Sherlock continued.

"Oh come on, you saw it too. You know I was right."

"Do you ever think it might not always be about whether you're right or wrong?"

Sherlock waved his hand in the air dismissively.

"But I was right." he insisted.

Sometimes arguing with him seemed pointless. Well, most of the time arguing with Sherlock was pointless but Mycroft usually enjoyed it more than he was now.

"You were almost right."

Now that caused Sherlock's head to turn sharply to the side. All trace of smugness had completely disappeared.

"What are you talking about?" he asked.

"You should have paid closer attention to the design of her jewellery." Mycroft looked his brother directly in the eye as he said the next part, "You always miss something don't you?" There was no attempt made to disguise the mocking tone, which wouldn't be unusual for the Holmes brothers. However, this time there was something else. This wasn't one of their usual bouts of verbal sparring. Mycroft had purposefully shoved the knife in where it hurt the most for Sherlock. It was a reminder that their unique skill was yet another area where Sherlock came second to him.

He hadn't said it just because he was sick of Sherlock and wanted to upset him. No. He was just... _tired_. Twenty-two years of being the perfect son. If Father wanted him to make 'friends' with a certain individual because their family was particularly influential, then it would be done. If Mummy wanted him to learn the piano then he'd excel at it. All the while his academic performance would remain superb. Then there was Sherlock. Fifteen years of looking out for Sherlock and clearing up the messes he made.

Was being allowed to get on with his own life simply too much to ask?

Over the last few years everything had gotten even more troublesome. The divorce meant Father turning up to university to assure Mycroft that he wasn't about to pull the funding from those that actually mattered (obviously he thought he was a good investment). Therefore it also meant he was the only focus for Father's ambitions.

Then there was the constant phone calls from Mummy ("Sherlock didn't come home last night, do you know where he might have gone?" "Mycroft, can you come home sweetie? I could really use your help" "Please, Mycroft I don't know what to do. He'll listen to you.") Their mother would always defend Sherlock no matter what but she didn't actually understand him. She would _never_ be able to understand him. Mycroft was one of the only people with that dubious honour.

Sherlock was one of Mycroft's most time consuming responsibilities. There were only two people (who actually knew Sherlock) who would care if something was to happen to him. Out of those two people only one of them had any idea of how Sherlock's mind worked. Right now he was probably working through every possible reason for why he was acting this way. He looked at Sherlock, still leaning against the doorway, confusion obvious in his eyes. The look on his face made him resemble a child that didn't quite understand what was going on, but Sherlock wasn't really a child anymore. He was fifteen, he'd almost finished school. Height wise he was beginning to draw level with Mycroft now. Wasn't it about time Sherlock stopped being so dependant on him? He was always complaining, especially as of late, about how interfering Mycroft was, maybe it was finally time to stop worrying and let go. Sherlock didn't need him, he'd be fine without him. With that in mind he turned away from Sherlock and walked off, disappearing into the crowds of distant relatives and family friends.

As he was walking away Mycroft felt... something. He didn't know what. That's the problem with having such a gifted mind, sometimes it leaves you lacking in other areas. He pushed the feeling down, there were more important matters to attend to now.


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer – I don't own Sherlock

Chapter 4

Mycroft finished university and went straight into government employment. His appearances at the Holmes family home became less and less frequent, after all he was a busy man. It also became nearly impossible to reach him via the phone. A man of his importance has priorities. He was living his own life.

By the time Sherlock started university he had already latched onto the idea of being a sociopath, it made life so much easier. His eccentricities became even more apparent and, especially in hostile company, he made little to no effort when it came to hiding them. After university he was even more difficult to find then his brother. Thrown out of one apartment, burned down another and sometimes he would simply disappear.

The two brothers had gone their separate ways.

But tragedy has a way of forcing people back into each others lives and, for once, the Holmes brothers were not the exception to the rule.

* * *

Mycroft was out of the country when he received the message.

_The police have been looking for you. Your mother is dead._

Quite simple. No embellishments. No details. Certainly no condolences. That was not the way they worked.

Most people would have dropped everything they were doing, flew back home or at least got on the phone to the authorities. However, Mycroft had business to attend to. He understood how to handle business. Mycroft didn't want to admit that he didn't know how to handle the other issue.

He couldn't remember the last time he felt so... lost.

* * *

Mycroft finally brought himself to acquire the details of her death while flying home. It had been a brain aneurysm. She was found on the kitchen floor by the cleaner at approximately 7am. No pulse or heartbeat. The authorities arrived on the scene at 7:21am. The coroners report shows estimated time of death as being 5 hours earlier.

He was once told by someone of little importance that it was normal to think irrational things during times like these. He had never believed that. Especially when he considered his own reactions to such occasions. Today though, he found that he couldn't help but think that out of all the rooms in the house Mummy would have hated dying in the kitchen most of all.

Mycroft put the files to one side and rubbed his eyes. When he arrived in London there would be a funeral to arrange. He had never arranged a funeral before. He may have _indirectly_ caused a few but arranging one would be a new experience.

* * *

It was 12:53 on a bright Tuesday morning when Mycroft came to the conclusion that he would never arrange another funeral in his life if he could help it. He was sitting in the family living room, surrounded by Mummy's friends and a few relatives who were all discussing flower arrangements at length. It had taken them an hour just to decide what Mummy would be wearing and after this they still had car arrangements and music to discuss.

He excused himself. It wasn't as if they would miss his presence. He hadn't been particularly helpful. He did know which of the dresses was his mother's favourite and he did know her favourite hymns and the funeral could have been arranged in half the time with his input but he found that he just didn't want to give it. Let those people think they knew Mummy so well. That's what she would have preferred. She was never one to fuss over herself.

Mycroft found himself standing in the doorway to the kitchen. He had been in the house for hours now and he had yet to go anywhere near the place where his mother drew her last breath. The kitchen was as tidy as ever. Perfectly arranged. Every surface was gleaming, reflecting the sunlight and lighting up the entire room. It would have been the perfect picture for a catalogue. He had always believed that death was a natural occurrence; something unavoidable and therefore something not to dwell on. The world doesn't stop turning. Life moves on as always. He had also always believed that this would never bother him. Today he found himself to be rather disappointed.

It was only when he heard his named being called that he finally managed to tear his gaze away from the room. He didn't know how long he had been absent but it seemed to be long enough to cause concern. Either that or they couldn't proceed with whatever they were doing without him. He turned away from the room and began to make his way back through the house. While walking down the passageway something caught his eye. A picture had fallen from the sideboard. He picked it up, turned it around in his hands and found a very familiar face staring back at him.

Sherlock.

His brow furrowed. No-one had mentioned Sherlock.

Arriving back in the living room there was only one thing on his mind.

"How did Sherlock react to the news?" he asked, the question was directed to the group rather than any individual.

The women in the room looked nervously at each other and then back at Mycroft. Then one of them spoke up.

"Well, after your mother was found the authorities tried contacting both of you. I think they were still tracking down Sherlock when they managed to get in touch with you. I guess after that they just... didn't see any reason to continue looking for him."

She looked at those sitting beside her for support and they nodded in response. One of them showing their support vocally.

"They probably assumed that you'd contact him."

"And... you decided not to ask whether I contacted him or tell me that you hadn't done so? You were going to let the funeral of my mother go ahead without her youngest son?"

He didn't wait for a response but he did overhear one that he was sure he wasn't meant to.

("He'd only ruin it.")

* * *

It took all of Mycroft's control to school his features into neutrality as he approached the car outside. The window wound down revealing his assistant.

"Sir?"

"There is a person of interest that I require information on. Mainly their current living arrangements. The name is Sherlock Holmes."

He noticed the slight incline of her eyebrow at the name.

"Consider it done sir."

"Good. I want the information as soon as it is available."

Now, all that was left to do was take care of those people currently occupying the living room.

* * *

"You should leave. Preferably now."

The women, who had all been gathered around the photo of a particularly fabulous flower arrangement, looked up at him in confusion.

"Your presence is no longer required... Oh for god's sake just get out."

They did so, tutting and whispering amongst themselves. One of them gave him a particularly black look as she passed. Did she actually think that would have any effect what so ever?

After he heard the front door shut he sat down, taking in and enjoying the silence that fell over the house. He still had a funeral to arrange but that could wait for at least a few minutes. The last few days had been long and he was overdue a break.

However the silence was short lived, broken by the sound of a doorbell.

What Mycroft had expected to see when he opened the door was one of those women who had decided to come back to tell him exactly what they thought of him and his attitude. What he was greeted with was his assistant.

"The information you requested has been found. I also took the liberty of requesting that a spare key be procured from the landlord. The key will be delivered in 30 minutes."

Mycroft nodded his approval.

"Good. Once it has arrived we shall leave for the location."

It was almost time to take care of the one arrangement that Mummy would have been adamant about.


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer- I don't own Sherlock.

Chapter 5

The car ride was silent. It was nothing new. Conversation was rarely present within the vehicle and today Mycroft had to think exceptionally carefully. Years ago, when the family was still intact, you could guess how best to deal with Sherlock simply from the atmosphere within the house. However it had been a long time since he had seen his younger brother and even longer since he had held a conversation with him. With Sherlock one wrong word, one wrong move or simply the tone of your voice could completely shut him down or set off that temper of his. He rarely ever lost his temper fully but when he did it was far from pleasant. In a way it was like he had never grown out of his childhood tantrums but now, presumably, he could do a lot more damage.

The car pulled up outside what was probably considered a fairly acceptable 3 floored, terrace house. The neighbourhood was average. He could see groups of children circling on their bikes; well he heard them before he saw them. Laughing and screeching. When he was a child he disliked the way most children acted, now he was an adult he found that he despised it. There was some litter in the streets, signs of graffiti (not proper graffiti, just the type of graffiti that involved silly little children with marker pens who thought they were rebellious because they wrote their name on a brick) and some of houses had chipped paint work as well as windows in dire need of cleaning.

It was a world apart from the life Mycroft was accustomed. It was also a world apart from the life both he and Sherlock had experienced growing up. He wondered how Sherlock had adapted to this lifestyle. Then again he had always cared little for his physical surroundings. The state of his childhood bedroom could attest to that.

The living arrangements also brought up more questions. Did Sherlock have a job? If he did, what on earth was he doing? If he didn't, where was he getting his money from?

No. He wasn't going to do this. He was here to inform his brother of their mother's death, that's all. He was not going to get involved.

* * *

The entire walk to the flat he had constantly been thinking of what would await him. What state would the flat be in? What state would Sherlock be in? Would he even be home? What exactly was he going to say? They weren't questions caused by overwhelming concern, he would go through the same process before his usual meetings. It was the easiest way to think of every possible action and reaction. Now that he stood before the door with the key in the lock the thoughts stopped. If he was at home it wouldn't do to be caught off guard. Sherlock wasn't like those people that he usually encounters at his meetings, the slightest bit of hesitancy or uncovered, unexplained pause and he would grasp onto it. The way their minds worked meant their behaviour in most aspects of their lives was almost predatory. Always watching. Always waiting. They saw everything and there was nowhere to hide. It's why they unnerved so many people.

* * *

As it transpired Sherlock wasn't at home. Mycroft didn't mind. He was quite fine with waiting. It gave him the perfect opportunity to observe, catalogue and analyse the elements of his brother's life visible in the flat.

The first, and most overwhelming thought, was that the place was an utter mess. Mycroft could only guess that this flat was one of those unfurnished ones and of course Sherlock was certainly not the type to go furniture shopping. Haphazard piles of books were everywhere, some of the piles were covered in a thick layer of dust while others seemed to have been moved more recently. A large cobweb had taken residence around the pile in the far corner of the room. The books themselves weren't surprising. They were his brother's usual interests.

There was one chair in the room, a rather rickety one at that. It was placed in front of a make-shift table (one of the legs appeared to have been snapped in half and the table was propped up by yet more books). Upon the table was a chemistry set, one his brother's old obsessions. It didn't look as though it had been treated particularly well. Broken glass littered it and one particular vial was lying on its side slowly emptying the remainder of its contents onto the floor, one drop at a time.

The only other thing in the room that could be considered furniture was a mattress on the far side of the room, lying just below the window sill. He guessed that's where Sherlock slept. There was no pillow. In fact there was only a duvet. A duvet without a cover. But there was something propped up against the wall beside the mattress. Something that looked exceptionally out of place. It was the violin Mummy bought Sherlock. It was gleaming. Myrcoft could see an area on the window sill above Sherlock's 'bed' that was also mostly devoid of dust. He could just picture Sherlock sitting upon the window sill, watching the people passing by while playing away.

After having taken a quick glance into the kitchen, bathroom and bedroom (which was completely empty) Mycroft had seen quite enough. All that was left to do now was wait.

* * *

Mycroft's wait was over a few hours later. The door creaked open and the first thing he saw wasn't Sherlock but a jacket flying into the room. The owner of said jacket followed it in seconds later and froze.

"Mycroft." He said it slowly, obviously confused.

His voice sounded rough, as if he hadn't used it in awhile.

"Sherlock." He responded with a slight nod.

Sherlock was even thinner than he remembered, which he had always thought impossible. His weight made his cheek bones even sharper and his face look drawn. Overall he looked tired. The hair was also shorter than he had ever seen Sherlock have it since he was a child. It stuck up in random places; the way it was dishevelled immediately gave Mycroft the impression of hands having been ran through it furiously. He was wearing a white shirt (untucked and with the sleeves rolled up). On the right sleeve he could see what seemed to be a blood stain, not a large one but concerning none the less (He wondered how many more there might be on the rolled up parts of the sleeve). His black jeans had a tear in them just below the knee. This, combined, with the other scuff marks and dirt seemed to imply some sort of fight or struggle. What have you been up to Sherlock?

His eyes met with Sherlock's, the look in them said exactly what Mycroft was expecting. Sherlock knew Mycroft had just read him like an open book and he didn't like it.

Sherlock moved to sit on the window sill, picking up the violin as he did so. He didn't pick the bow up instead he just picking at the strings. He used to do it all the time when they were younger. It was one of his many ways of showing disinterest in your presence. After a few seconds Sherlock turned his head slightly to the side and looked Mycroft up and down. He then smirked mockingly.

"You look... healthy"

Mycroft let out an exasperated.

"Sherlock don't start."

"Am I hurting big brother's feelings?" His words were drawled out with an underlying edge of contempt.

"I thought you might have grown up a bit more by now."

"I'll have you know I'm a fully formed adult human."

"Physically not mentally."

"And physically there's enough of you to make two fully formed adults."

"Why do you always have to be so antagonistic Sherlock? You know how that behaviour would always upset Mummy?"

"I upset her! Me! Who was the one who ran off and became a complete replication of the husband that made her miserable. 'Oh I'm sorry Mr Holmes can't come to the phone right now'. How many times do you think she heard that before we were born? And how many more times did she hear it when you had better things to do?"

"Careful, you may start sounding like you actually care. After all, you haven't been the most attentive son. And is that what this is all about?" He said, gesturing towards the mess that represented Sherlock's life, "Not wanting to be like _Daddy._ You've done very well."

"Are you trying to imply I'm like him...I'm nothing like him!" Sherlock's voice was taking on a rather dangerous edge but Mycroft didn't stop.

"Father was arrogant and self obsessed. He put his work and own interests before everything else in his life. Of course none of those attributes would possibly apply to you." He then glanced at Sherlock's arms and the marks that littered them. "And alcohol was his drug of choice."

"Get. Out." was the response through gritted teeth.

Mycroft sighed. Sherlock was the only one that could bait him and things always escalated from there on out. On one hand the argument was easier than telling Sherlock what he came here to; on the other hand it was now going to be even more difficult to make Sherlock listen.

"I did come here to tell you something. If you would just listen.."

"Nothing you have to say remotely interests me."

Sherlock had abandoned his post on the window sill now and had thrown himself down onto the mattress, staring resolutely at the ceiling.

That was a sign that the conversation was done. Mycroft sighed. He got up and moved towards the door. Stopping only he once he had the door open.

"Mummy is dead. I'll be sending you details of the funeral arrangements soon. Do clean yourself up before attending. That is, of course, if your mother's funeral _interests_ you."

He knew it was selfish to throw this information at Sherlock and then leave without looking back but, to be honest, he was selfish.

* * *

Sherlock's eyes had widened and small gasp escaped past his lips before he could stop it. Immediately his head was filled with questions. How? When? As his mind raced he turned on his side; staring at his violin and, eventually, reaching out and stroking his fingers down the strings.

Neither he nor Mycroft were particularly family orientated; he couldn't have cared less if it was one of his aunts or even his father that had died. However this was their mother. Sherlock could vaguely recall someone saying, "Mother is the name for God on the lips and the hearts of all children". No matter what either of them did, or said, they had both worshipped Mummy in their own way.

* * *

**A/N** - There won't be any updates for a few weeks. Essays to write, websites to design. I'd much prefer to be writing this.


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.

Chapter Six**  
**

_Mycroft,_

_I'm writing this in event of my death. I know some would say it is slightly premature but I have to be sure that, in the event of something happening to me, everything will be taken care of. _

_There are things I have been keeping from you about Sherlock. He has been a constant worry as of late and that is what has prompted me to write this letter. I never wanted to worry you Mycroft. You were doing so well and he is my responsibility. Sherlock has a problem. I can almost hear you saying 'No, Mummy, Sherlock is a problem'. You know, even if most of the comments passed between you two in recent years have been rather snide, I loved to watch you interact. You care about each other. Both of you may deny it but a mother knows. _

_I would love this letter to be nothing more than me telling my sons how much I love them; almost as much as I would love to not have a reason to write this letter at all. However, as I wrote earlier, Sherlock has a problem. He's on drugs Mycroft. My little angel is using drugs and I don't know what to do about it. He goes missing for days on end and every time he does I can't help but picture him lying dead in some back street of London. _

_Sometimes, back when he lived at home, he would disappear up into his room and wouldn't speak for days on end. He would rarely move or eat. If he still possesses those habits I hate to think of state he will be in. He's going to end up killing himself. _

_I can't help but think it is my fault. Maybe if I had been tougher on him rather than always standing up for him. Maybe if I had kept a closer eye on him. If you had been around you would have noticed. You may have thought I was naive but I always knew that no matter how much I loved Sherlock I didn't understand him. You are the only person that can reason with him. _

_If I'm gone then there is one thing I ask of you Myrcoft. In my will I have split my entire estate between you and Sherlock however I have given you control over his half. I need you to look after your brother. At least try to. For me. I realise this may be a burden to you but I wouldn't ask unless I thought it completely necessary. _

_Remember Mycroft, you are and always will be my darling boy._

_Love_

_Mummy_

Mycroft gently laid the letter down on his desk. It had been given to him but the family solicitor when he came to enquire about his mother's funeral arrangements.

Well, it looked as if he would be getting involved in his brother's life after all.

* * *

Sherlock had always liked London. It was a large city. A city that had everything he could possibly need or want. He always hated when the family would go away to the country estate during holidays. Even attending Cambridge made it seem too far away. He had wandered these streets so often he knew almost every street, side alley and crevice by heart. And it was after hearing Mycroft's news that he found himself wandering them once more.

He wasn't out trying to clear his head and make sense of it all as some people would claim. No. He was simply keeping himself occupied. If he was going to attend the funeral (the operative word being 'if') then he would need to do as Mycroft had suggested and clean himself up. Since most of the clothes he currently owned where either inappropriate or ruined beyond repair he would need money. The bustling streets of London would be able to provide him with this.

As he walked he noticed the varying reactions to appearance. From distrust to disgust. Admittedly he did currently look every inch the stereotypical drug user. However one look in particular irritated him beyond words. Pity. He briefly wondered if the look of pity would remain on the _sweet_ old woman's face if he was to inform her that he had stolen her husband's wallet mere moments ago.

He had to get money somehow, and this way of procuring finances was preferable over getting a job. Not to mention much more amusing. Sherlock recalled one particular instance when he paid his rent with money he had stolen from his landlord earlier.

If he was honest he had acquired more than enough money in the last few hours but he didn't want to go back home. Mycroft knew where he lived. For years now they had actively avoided each other. Now his brother was back and... nothing had changed. They had fallen into the same pattern of insults and silent deductions.

Sherlock hated that. He hated the familiarity of it all.

As soon as the funeral was over Mycroft would be gone again.

* * *

Sherlock stood outside, looking up at the church. He had changed his mind about attending the ceremony multiple times before finally convincing himself that he had nothing better to do. But still... it's never too late to change your mind. He could leave now and no-one would know...

"So you decided to turn up then. Thankfully you look more presentable than the last time I saw you."

Sherlock whirled around to face Mycroft, a questioning look on his face.

"Is something wrong?" Mycroft asked.

"Why are you out here? The funeral started 30 minutes ago."

Inwardly Mycroft smirked.

"Oh no it doesn't start for another 30 minutes. Did my assistant misinform you?"

With that realisation dawned on Sherlock.

"And why would you purposefully make sure I was told the wrong time?"

"Indeed why would I? It's not as though you would _purposefully_ turn up late to avoid having to interact with the rest of the human race now is it?"

"Have I ever told you how much I utterly despise you?"

"I recall quite a few occasions."

"I'm leaving."

"Don't be such a child Sherlock. It's our mother's funeral."

And with that the conversation ended. Sherlock sat on the church steps and Mycroft took up position besides the church doors.

They remained that way until the first guests began to arrive. Mycroft greeted them all and thanked them for coming while Sherlock continued to sulk on the steps. A few of the guests took this as a sign of Sherlock's distress over the loss of their mother. However a considerable number of the guests had other ideas concerning the both of the Holmes brothers. Ideas that continued to be voiced within the confines of the church as Sherlock and Mycroft made their way to their seats.

("Look at them. It's their mother's funeral and not even a flicker of emotion. No sadness. Nothing." "Yes, the older one is all very polite and respectful but where was he when the other one was driving that poor woman into an early grave." "Speaking of him, did you see him outside? Looked as though he'd rather be anywhere else. )

Sherlock turned to Mycroft and said,

"I do believe people are talking about us."

For a second Mycroft was taken aback. That had bordered on civility. However he was quick to realise the game Sherlock was playing. He has said it loud enough for their _critics_ to be able to hear.

"Yes, you would think people would have more respect. After all a funeral is hardly a place for them to indulge in gossip."

Mycroft's response matched his brother's flippant tone perfectly.

"Some people may begin to think they came to the funeral for all the wrong reasons."

With that all conversations with them as the topic of discussion ceased and the funeral went on without any further disruptions.

* * *

Sherlock and Mycroft were the last two people left at the graveside; as would be expected. They stood on opposite sides and looked in opposite directions. Sherlock stared at the grave. While Mycroft looked off into the distance. The silence between them was only broken when Sherlock reached into his jacket, pulling out a cigarette and then a lighter.

"Mummy would be horrified if she saw you smoking."

Sherlock's gaze snapped up to meet Mycroft's before looking back down at the grave.

"Well, she can't see me can she."

Having said that he placed the cigarette in his mouth and lit it. The slight shake of his hands didn't go unnoticed by Mycroft. Sherlock was craving something more than nicotine.

"Come with me and I'll have my driver take you home."

Sherlock clenched his jaw and took another draw from his cigarette. He took his time, savouring the feeling, before replying.

"I can find my own way home."

Mycroft sighed. He knew this wasn't going to be easy. It was going to take time and a lot of patience to fulfil Mummy's request.

"Why must you always be so stubborn?"

"I'm not being stubborn. I just don't need an escort home. Especially considering it's the middle of the day."

"I was only trying to be helpful. Can't we at least be civil with each other?"

"I don't need nor want your help."

The elder Holmes decided tactical surrender would be the best option for now. He could use the time between now and the next time they saw each other to get some information on what his little brother had been up to. Then he would know a little more about what exactly he was dealing with.

"Fine. I'm leaving now. I have other business to attend to that simply cannot be put off any longer. Goodbye Sherlock."

Sherlock didn't answer. It was just as he thought. As soon as the funeral was over Mycroft would disappear again. Everyone is predictable.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

Many of those who had met Sherlock Holmes would probably say they could never imagine the man ever being anything close to a normal child. However Sherlock, like any child, had been prone to flights of fancy. He had wanted to be Robin Hood. He had wanted to be a pirate captain. Sherlock used to imagine and he used to play pretend though he'd never willingly divulge this information. Mainly because divulging would lead to discussion and he preferred to push down the memories of his childhood fantasies just as soon as they surfaced.

It wasn't just a case of him simply being embarrassed. There were many reasons he'd rather not think about his childish daydreams and one of them was his elder brother.

You see in all the fantastic constructs produced by his mind there was one constant. As a child Sherlock had been unable to imagine a world without his brother in it. Yes, most of the time Mycroft was the enemy. The naval officer to Sherlock's pirate captain. But he was always there.

This wasn't merely childish sentimentality but also practicality.

Even in his younger years Sherlock recognised that the only person that seemed to understand him was his older brother. Mycroft saw the world the same way he did. Sherlock's then childish mind thought this meant there was a unique, unbreakable bond between them. It would always be them, together, standing separate from the rest of the world. In his eyes a world without Mycroft would be dull. In such a world as that Sherlock would be alone.

This neediness was the one of the main reasons Sherlock hated to ruminate on his childhood. Mycroft had always been associated with safety in those days. He remembers being 4 years old, at some party, his hand gripping tightly onto the back of his elder brother's shirt and Mycroft always standing a little in front of him. He remembers hearing a car pull up outside; he knows it means Mycroft is home from school and he runs to the front door like an excited dog going to greet its master. He remembers refusing to leave the hospital when Mycroft had his appendix out. He remembers kicking and screaming when they try to make him.

He remembers but most of the time he tries not to.

Right now, not remembering is proving more difficult than usual. He thought being away from his brother would make it easier but now, left alone in his flat, he finds himself stuck. Mycroft was here. He sat in that chair. Even when Sherlock considers digging out his usual _distraction_ all he can hear is his brother's voice saying 'alcohol was his drug of choice'.

Finally Sherlock reached a decision. He grabbed his jacket and all but ran out of the door. That Detective Lestrade had been trying to get him to help with some case. It was far from an interesting one but right now anything was better than nothing.

* * *

After the funeral Mycroft had returned to the office and gone about his business as usual. His obligations could not be pushed aside in favour of personal problems. He would consider the Sherlock problem once he had finished here. Besides all the necessary arrangements had been made. His little brother wouldn't make a move that Mycroft wouldn't be informed about in the report his assistant would hand to him later. He also trusted those that worked for him to identify areas which required further investigation and have all relevant information ready for him.

His judgement, as ever, was sound.

According to the reports delivered to him his brother had spent all of 43 minutes at his home before leaving. More importantly he went to Scotland Yard and met with detective by the name of Gregory Lestrade. The detective had been one of the investigators looking into the rather gruesome murder 6 months ago. The victim was discovered to have a drug problem as well as growing monetary issues leading police to suspect his supplier. The drug dealer in question was proving difficult to find so they started pulling in known associates for questioning. One of them being Sherlock Holmes. The interview had been rather amusing to listen to. The detective trying to remain professional and Sherlock being his usual self. However, after the interview the case is soon solved thanks in part to an anonymous tip.

Between then and now there had been 2 cases Detective Inspector Lestrade had worked on that had gone from going nowhere to suddenly being solved in what would seem to be a flash of inspiration.

Briefly Mycroft recalled a death of a boy in a swimming pool that Sherlock had paid a great deal of attention to.

It would seem some of his brother's interests hadn't changed.

* * *

Sherlock had been right about the case not being that interesting. He'd only been on it just over a day and he almost had it solved. Which is why he was spending his afternoon sitting in a café just across the street from the shop co-owned by the victim and his sister. There was just one thing he needed to see to confirm his suspicions.

He was completely absorbed in his observations until he heard the tell tale sound of the chair across from him being pulled out. He turned to politely inform his new table companion that he wasn't interested in company but that plan of action quickly fell apart when he found his own brother sitting across from him.

"What... are you doing here?"

Sherlock had to fight to keep his voice under control and at an acceptable volume.

"I was just passing by."

Sherlock scoffed. It was an obvious lie. He went back to watching the shop. He had more important things to do then figure out what his brother was up to.

"So is this what you want to spend the rest of your life doing?"

He turned back to face his brother only to find Mycroft was looking disinterestedly at the exact same spot as he had been moments ago.

"Staring at shops from the inside of cafés?"

"Solving mysteries and crimes." Mycroft replied.

Sherlock resisted the urge to roll his eyes. It didn't come as a shock to him that his brother had found out how he was keeping himself occupied these days.

"Oh we're having this conversation are we? Fantastic. Is this the part where you tell me I'm wasting my life and I could do so much more?"

"No, I believe this is the part where I patiently wait for you to answer my original question."

"If it'll make you leave quicker then my answer is yes."

Mycroft seemed to nod to himself before standing up.

"Fair enough. I shall leave you to your... work."

Sherlock could do nothing but stare incredulously at his brother's retreating form. He didn't know what he'd been expecting but it was certainly something more than that. Mycroft was up to something. He didn't have the faintest idea what but he was sure he'd find out.

* * *

Weeks had passed since that strange encounter in café and Sherlock had neither seen nor heard from his brother. It wasn't as though he was disappointed about that. Mycroft had probably forgotten about the entire thing. After all, he had a country to run.

Sherlock himself had been busy. In fact this was the first time he had made it back to his flat in the last 2 days.

He made it to the entrance to his living room before he froze. It was tidy. Yes, there were still piles of books but they were neat and dust free. Slowly he made his way further into the room. His bed was missing. He knew most people would say it shouldn't be in a living room but that's where he kept it and for some reason it wasn't there. And the table wasn't his table. He had broken one of the legs of his table. On this... new table were white paper bags which he certainly hadn't left there. He took a quick glimpse in each of them. Components to what looked like a chemistry set. A laptop. A mobile phone. And attached to the mobile phone box there was a note.

He recognised the handwriting instantly.

_The mattress you were using as a bed has been disposed of. Your new bed is in the bedroom. A much more suitable place for such an item. In your bedroom you will also find a wardrobe. You'll find clothes in there. If you are serious about this career choice of yours I believe looking respectable will be of some advantage to you. _

_I also took the liberty of procuring some other items I felt may be of some use to you. _

_This would have been done sooner but you can't rush a good tailor._

Sherlock knew fine well the most Mycroft would have done is write this note and maybe make a few phone calls. No, Mycroft's people had done this. His brother had sent people into his flat to tidy and re-arrange it.

Sherlock stood there, his hand slowly crushing the note held within it. He would have to think of a way to thank his brother for being so thoughtful.


End file.
